


Drinks at Jazz Bars

by Rachel_Lu



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Banter, Drinking & Talking, F/M, First Kiss, Jazz Age, Post-War, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 03:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11958897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachel_Lu/pseuds/Rachel_Lu
Summary: Every night, he comes in, and finally, she speaks to him and realizes he's more than even he thought he was





	Drinks at Jazz Bars

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fulfillment for @doctorroseprompts : Roaring 20s AU with Rose as a singer in a jazz club (bonus points for Rose in a flapper dress)

She sang. That was all she knew, all she was anymore.  She was a note on a page, a flash in the pan, and most nights, she was alright with that.  The war had recently ended, and by that she meant it had been a couple years, but people were still fighting their demons about the whole thing.  Soldiers came and went, sitting in the club she sang at, nursing glasses of gin and tonic, trying to use it as medicine.

If nothing else, she thought she could help them, make them feel better about whatever situation they thought too difficult for them.  

It was one of those nights she saw him. 

He always sat in the same spot every time he came in, hunched over his glass, fringe in his eyes. In fact, he looked like he hadn’t had a good haircut in a very long while.  Rose could tell he was a soldier just by looking at him, but he didn’t seem to wear it like a badge of honor like the other men did.  He didn’t wear his uniform into the club to get women to hang on his arms, he didn’t wink or flirt.  He sat and stared into his drink, and tapped his fingers to the beat of the music.  Every night, he sat like that, and it intrigued Rose to no end.  She was obsessed with him, not that she would ever say it.

The first night he looked up from his drink was when the beginning strains of “Who’s Sorry Now?” played through the room.  His dark eyes locked right onto hers, and Rose felt her heart stutter a little bit in her chest.  He had soulful eyes, that pained her heart.  She offered him a smile before she started singing, and held his gaze as often as she could.

She suddenly felt insecure, wearing so little clothing as she was. Her red flapper dress hit just above her knees, and she suddenly felt the need to cover herself up and run offstage.  The thin straps on the dress made goosebumps break out when she saw the way his eyes touch her shoulders, his gaze like fire.  Halfway through the song, his gaze dropped again, and she was breathless.

After she was done singing, she repressed the urge to throw on her fur wrap and decided to sit with the man at the bar.  She perched on the bar stool next to him and threw her hair over her shoulder. 

“Butt me?” She asked him, holding out her hand.

“I don’t think a singer should smoke,” he replied softly, his tender voice not matching his demeanor.  “And you have a beautiful voice.”

She sat up straighter, feeling as though she should be insulted, but she really wasn’t.  He was kind, she could tell just by looking at him.  

“Thanks,” she replied, smiling at him, “I see you round here a lot.”

He smiled. “That would be because I come round here a lot.”

“You’re a tricky one,” Rose wiggled her finger at him. “Do you want to tell me your name?”

“I’d love to, but it’s impolite of me to not let a lady go first.”

She smiled and held out her hand. “Rose Tyler.”

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “A pleasure.  Doctor John Smith.”  
“A Doctor?  And all this time I thought you were a soldier.”

“I was,” he nodded, releasing her hand, and she regretted it instantly.  She was shocked just by how much she wanted to touch him again.

“Then I read you right,” She said proudly.

He taped the side of his nose.  “That’s not everything about me though.  I’m more than a man who fought.”  

“So you help people.  I like that.”  
He smiled. “I’ve also killed people.”

     “There was a war,” she said, “Who hasn’t?”  She leaned towards him, “I’m sorry you had to do that, but it doesn't define you.” She cleared her throat when he seemed to be uncomfortable. “You like ‘Who’s Sorry Now’, don’t you?”  
“Yes, ma’am,’ He said, smiling at her. “I've never heard anyone sing it like you do, though.”

     “Is that so?” She preened a little. “You come in every night. Maybe I should sing it tomorrow, just so I know that you'll come back.”

     He smiled. “I come for the drinks.”

     “I think you tell yourself that. I want to know why you really come.”

     The strength in those dark eyes faltered, and he looked at her straight on, like he suddenly wasn't afraid of her anymore. “You are mesmerizing,” he said, “Not because you're beautiful, although you  _ are,  _ but because you can sing about love and loss and strength and power and make me believe every word.”  He took a sip of his drink. “You're the first singer who's ever made me feel anything. I like it.”

     She nudged his shoulder. “Maybe I do mean it,” she said, “Maybe I've felt every word in the pit of my stomach, in every fiber of my being.”

     “I think you tell yourself that,” he quoted back to her, smiling, “I think you just have incredible empathy.  I think you like to feel emotions.”

     “Who doesn't?”

    “Me.”

      “But you said I made you feel, Doctor John Smith,” she said, cocking her head to the side, “Don't I count?”

     “Miss Tyler, I think you count for the lot of them,” he smiled at her.  “You came over and talked to me first, after all, I would've never expected that.”

     “I'm not exactly full of surprises,” she admitted to him, her smile turning a bit sheepish as she did so. “But I like your eyes. And I like how you speak to me. And I rather hope that you'll come round tomorrow night.”

    “You really want me to?” He questioned, arching an eyebrow at her. 

    “I really do,” she nodded. “And since you won't let me smoke, you can at least buy me a drink.”

    She caught his gaze wandering a few times, but for the most part, as they spoke, his eyes were firmly fixed on hers. She was glad for that, as she was drawn into his eyes with a fire that she, perhaps, had forgotten existed. He was completely raw, had no time to hide anything at all, because he had done so many horrible things that it was exhausting, keeping it all in one body. 

    She learned that he'd taken and saved lives and that sometimes he regretted what he'd done. He learned that she grew up with the bare minimum of education. 

     They both learned that they would like to see each other again. 

     He kissed her hand again before bolting into the night, leaving her pulse absolutely thrumming. She went home shortly after, lightly buzzed, drunk enough to let the warm happiness settle in her veins. 

      As he had (or hadn't) promised, he was there the next night. Like a ritual, she would come off the stage and drink with him, night after night, wearing different dresses, until one night she noticed the gold one she was wearing seemed to be absolutely rocking his world. He kept staring at it, and the gold light flecked off his eyes in the most becoming manner. 

     “You like this one?” She asked him teasingly, trailing her fingers through the fringe on the dress. 

     “You're beautiful,” he told her, eyes locked back on hers. “The gold is lovely.”

     “So you do like it.”

    “I do.”

     “We've talked for days now, Doctor John Smith, and not once have you offered to walk me home,” she crossed her legs, and his eye was drawn to her knees. He swallowed hard. 

   “That would hardly be appropriate.”

   “Would it?” She asked him, “Because I don't remember inviting you in.”

   He gave a surprised laugh. “Alright then, Miss Tyler, if you'd like me to, I'll walk you home tonight.”

   She fetched her wrap from the back of the club as a soft jazz piece filtered through the space. She held her hand out to John. 

    “I'd Like you to dance with me first.”

    He seemed a little uncomfortable, but he guided her to the dance floor anyway, wrapping one arm around her waist, fingers tangling in the fringe of her dress, and the other hand holding hers in his. They fit perfectly like this, Rose mused to herself, and she wondered if he thought they did too. 

    They danced for more than one song, though it really wasn't on purpose. They would murmur bits and pieces of what could've been conversations but really weren't. He talked like the ocean, pushing and pulling, and she could've let it wash over her all night. 

     Eventually though, Rose snapped herself from the reverie he had settled her under and tapped her fingers against the skin on the back of his neck. 

     “I think it's time you escorted me home,” she told him softly, and he agreed with a small smile and a nod.

     The walk back to her tiny shack of a home was a short one. She didn't live in a glamorous part of town, and by the expression on his face, she assumed he did. 

     “Didn't know a pretty girl could live in the slums, could you?” She teased. 

     He blushed a little, caught. “I wasn't going to say anything about it. Except it might not be safest for you here.”

     “It's what I can afford,” she shrugged.  She pulled a chain from around her neck and grasped the key that had been on the end of it. John gulped, as most men would when realizing the woman who holds their affections kept her house key in her breasts all night. 

     “I've been thinking,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “I think we should see each other outside the jazz club.”

     “We are outside the jazz club.” 

    “You're just being difficult because you know this is hard for me.”

    She stepped away from the door and stood so close to him that he could feel her breath. She looked up into his eyes and smiled slowly. “And just where would you take me, my war-torn Doctor?”

     His hands settled on her waist of their own free will and he tugged her a little closer. “I would take you to the Stars.”

     “And the moon?”

    “If we have time.”

    She laughed, a nice tinkling sound that lit through the night. “I would like that.  Why don't we go tomorrow? I don't work.”

     “Neither do I.”

     “It's a date.”  She leaned up on her toes and kissed him softly. He wasn't expecting it, so his fingers dug into her sides just so he could keep his balance. He managed, quite well in fact, and kissed her back.  He pulled back after several moments and pressed his forehead to hers. “Don't forget about tomorrow,” he told her. 

    “Wouldn't dream of it,” she said breathlessly. “You're a brilliant kisser.”

   “So are you.” He kissed her again and took a step back. “Until tomorrow?”

   She waved her hand theatrically. “Until the sun shall kill the Earth once more with light as you have kissed me with your darkness.”  She stepped forward again and cupped his cheek in one hand. “You deserve all the happiness that I intend to give you, John Smith. Goodnight.”

    He took her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers.  “Goodnight, my Rose.”

    Her eyes seemed to fill with happiness at words and she nodded. It was hard for them to say goodnight, but Rose went back into her home and John went to his, knowing he would see the shining face of his savior once more. 

     Perhaps spending every night at a jazz club wasn't so bad after all. 


End file.
